


It's only castles burning

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: After the Rebellion, Robert Baratheon absconds from the Seven Kingdoms and Ned Stark retreats for the North, leaving Jaime Lannister to claim the throne. The royal Golden Lion takes his sister to wife...but their Targaryen-esque marriage fails to yield an heir. Therefore, Hand of the King Tywin Lannister comes to a clear conclusion: Jaime must do as other kings have before him and take a second wife.





	It's only castles burning

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what to say about this one, you guys. I was trying to work on my WIPs...but then this idea popped into my head...and all of a sudden, I was 3000+ words in...so. Here you go.
> 
> The title comes from "Don't Let It Bring You Down" by Neil Young.

Coronation. A grandiose word for a grandiose concept…

...and Tywin Lannister knows better than anyone how to wield and weaponize grandeur.

He has his son crowned on the steps of the Sept of Baelor; not within the holy chamber-as all other kings had been made since the establishment of the Seven as the national faith- but outside, in full view of nobles and knights and smallfolk alike. The Targaryen kings wore iron crowns to match their Iron Throne, a constant reminder of the pain and bloodshed associated with an effective rule…

...but Jaime Lannister becomes the King of the Seven Kingdoms when the High Septon places a crown of gold and ruby atop his equally-golden curls.

In spite of these novel proceedings, the new King intends to keep at least one Targaryen tradition alive and well. He clasps the hand of his newly-made wife, the sister who grew within their mother’s womb beside him, the glorious, flaxen-haired goddess bedecked in white gossamer, the ochre of her hair rivaling the hue of her crown, her hand clasped so tightly within his own that he nearly loses sensation in his fingers-

And so he thinks it a rather opportune moment to release his grasp and wrap his arm around his queen’s waist, drawing her close and kissing her deeply, sensually, with thousands of pairs of eyes to bear witness, to observe and accept this love that need not hide in dark corridors and vacant storerooms, not anymore.

The cheer begins several moments too late, the crowd cloaked beneath an obvious pall of hesitation …

...but they do eventually cheer, and Jaime tells himself that it will have to be enough for now.

* * *

He beds his wife with vigor, crying out his release at top volume, urging Cersei to wail and moan when he nestles his face between her legs and slowly, torturously sucks the taut bud above her cunt. He tastes his own come on her- perhaps it should repulse him, but he feels a tightening of his lower belly, a harbinger of the swelling sure to return to his cock- _ there’s no need for silence, no need for restraint. _

“Take me again,” Cersei gasps the moment he stiffens, and he’s delighted to comply. He’s a young man, at the peak of his physical vitality- he’ll fuck his sister-wife all night, all day, with no fear of exhaustion or boredom. 

“I love you,” he pants into her mouth after his fourth climax, gently trailing his lips over the curves of her cheekbones. And when she repeats the sentiment, he clutches her body to his, reveling in the feel of her pulse pressed to his own racing heart.

* * *

“Something must be done.”

Jaime is well-accustomed to this phrase from his father; king he may be, but Tywin Lannister truly rules the land as a Hand who reaches everywhere, and he learned long ago to accept it as an unchangeable fact. 

But in this instance...here, he might be justified in enacting some royal authority.

“I don’t know what you mean, Father,” he snaps, satisfied by the well-sharpened edge blatantly present in his tone.

“Troubles of this nature used to happen to the Targaryens on a regular basis. Plenty of generations experienced similar problems....it’s a particular challenge of wedding relations without a proper degree of separation. I’m not faulting you, Jaime….nor you, Cersei.”

(The latter sounds more flimsy, less sincere, but Cersei makes no complaints.)

“You’ve lost four children now, daughter. The future of the Lannister line depends on an heir to claim the throne after Jaime passes...a child must come. There’s no other way.”

Four dead children. Nearly twenty years. He can feel the grinding of his father’s mental gears, the shortness of time, the unbearable urgency-

“It’s only a matter of patience,” Jaime utters shortly, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “The time will be right soon enough...I’ve no doubt that we’ll have a true-born, full-blooded Lannister lion cub in our arms soon enough.” He glances toward Cersei, hoping to spot a happy expression on her beautiful face...but although she smiles at him, the grin does not reach her eyes.

“There’s no room for patience. Not anymore.” Lord Tywin paces the length of his solar; he’s rankled, out of step, out of sorts- it’s so unusual to see his father this poorly-controlled, and Jaime feels something dangerously akin to boyish glee at the image.

But he knows better than to speak it aloud.

“You’ve already followed the Targaryen tradition of wedding brother to sister. But there’s also a Targaryen precedence of a king taking multiple wives. You need a second wife, Jaime.”

“I won’t,” he hisses in reply. And yet, he’s surprised by the lack of argument from Cersei; as Father describes his ridiculous plan, Cersei remains still, silent...compliant. 

_ He told her first, _ Jaime suddenly realizes. And he’s overwhelmed by rage and pathos and the cold, stinging prickle of betrayal- _ they’ve planned this together, and I’m the one left behind. _

“Think of her as a brood mare, my son. Cersei will remain your public consort, the Queen to stand at your side as you rule the kingdoms. This other girl...yes, you’ll give her the title and the jewels and a pretty chair to sit on as you conduct court business. But she’ll have one purpose, and one purpose only.”

The words seem to bring Cersei a sense of comfort, and he tries to channel and absorb her complaisance...with little success.

* * *

Of course, his father wouldn’t propose such a notion without a clearly-devised strategy. And, in this case, the strategy includes candidates for the position of Deputy Queen.

“As I see it, there are three viable options,” Lord Tywin begins as a page erects three easels in the King’s solar, each containing a portrait of a fair young maiden. 

“The first: Arianne Martell. Eight-and-ten. Daughter of Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne.”

His lips curled into a scowl so thorough that he wonders whether it’s been permanently etched upon his face, Jaime sweeps his gaze over the first portrait. _ Pretty girl, _he thinks, immediately overcome by guilt for daring to feel such a reaction. 

Lord Tywin proceeds to the second easel, gesturing to the portrait of a sweet-faced brunette, slim but curvaceous, with mirth in her brown eyes. “The second: Margaery Tyrell. Six-and-ten. Daughter of Mace Tyrell of Highgarden. A wealthy family well-worth cultivation.”

He shrugs, and Lord Tywin continues to the final easel:

“Sansa Stark. Five-and-ten. Daughter of Eddard Stark of Winterfell. The North has been...reluctant to pledge true fidelity to the Iron Throne, ever since their girl caused such a ruckus all those years ago. Wedding a Northern daughter could prove useful to the monarchy.”

He notices the Stark girl’s hair before anything else. A stream of crimson enflamed by shots of gold and palest orange, an inferno on her head. Otherwise, she seems rather ordinary- pretty eyes, yes, but that’s hardly a rare sight among young women with families able to provide coin for a portraiture. 

Cersei moves to stand behind him, clutching his upper arms and allowing her nails to sink into his skin. After a moment, she speaks in a resolute tone: “The youngest one. If this is for the sake of fertility, her youth will only help our cause.”

“I’ve no objection,” Lord Tywin replies, his lips flattening into a straight line that Jaime recognizes as his father’s approximation of a smile. “Although you may wish to consider the dowry you’d receive from the Tyrell girl. I don’t advise the Dornish lass- Dorne will require far more than a political marriage for appeasement. But Highgarden has considerable coin, far more than the stores of Winterfell.”

After closing his eyes for a moment to allow the tightness forming between his temples to dissipate, Jaime fully looks at the portraits of Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark. Both young, both beautiful, both wholly uninteresting to him and his cock…

But the contrast of red against white, the wide, open eyes, the softly-sloping nose and high cheekbones-

“We want the younger girl. The Stark girl.” 

Cersei speaks for the two of them - as she always has, as she always will. And although they typically avoid such familiarities in their father’s presence, Jaime can’t resist the urge to coil his arm around her waist, splaying his hand over her belly as he draws her into the incline of his hip.

* * *

Ned Stark does not take kindly to the notion of his eldest daughter becoming the king’s second wife.

Of course, old Ned has little fondness for Lannister rule in general; at times, the king feels the profound, almost-irresistible desire to send a raven to the Lord of Winterfell, to remind him once again:_ this could have been your throne. When Robert Baratheon fled to the Free Cities and you found me in the throne room….you could have claimed the seat, and I would have stepped aside for you. _

(And, in many instances, Jaime can’t help but wish that Ned Stark had done exactly that. _ This crown is a terrible burden...only a madman would want it for his own. _)

But, in spite of his tedious reluctance, the Warden of the North agrees in the end. He rides down to King’s Landing with his entire household in tow: his pretty Tully wife, his eldest son, his sallow bastard, the younger sprouts...and, of course, the future (deputy) queen.

It’s hardly uncommon for portrait artists to exaggerate the comeliness of their subjects; he’d expected his bride to arrive with a larger nose, a less-shapely neck, perhaps duller hair than the picture indicated. But, to his boldfaced astonishment, Sansa Stark proves every bit as beautiful as her painting suggested. 

Unlike his father and Cersei, Jaime can’t consider Sansa’s youth a positive attribute. _ I’m marrying a child, _he thinks with significant distaste (and when he considers bedding the girl, consummating the marriage, he feels a powerful pang of nausea in his lower belly). But she’s a tall lass with a blooming figure- hips wider and bosom more robust than he expected. Full lips, bright eyes, and that hair- 

King’s Landing boasts beautiful women aplenty. And yet, the King never feels inclined to touch or taste or explore any woman save his lawful wife, the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, will ever see. However, he can’t deny the pleasant picture created by this girl’s ivory skin and ruby hair and oceanic eyes.

_ Red and gold. Lannister colors flooding the throne room, the sept, the Red Keep, the entire nation. _

Before the ceremony begins, he vaguely wonders whether the Northern girl will even know the words of the Seven, whether she’ll have to murmur along with some fumbling junior septon. 

But she speaks the words clearly and distinctly, and he takes a moment to appreciate the melodious quality of her tone before uttering his own vows and bending at the waist to kiss her on both cheeks.

Soft skin, smelling of pine- one cheek, then the other, then a brush of lips on lips. She doesn’t respond to the movement of his mouth over hers; he wonders whether it’s only inexperience that causes her to hesitate, or whether she’s displeased with her venerable husband, easily old enough to have sired her.

* * *

There is no formal bedding. “It’s inappropriate,” he declared to his courtiers prior to the ceremony. The king already has a wife; making a hubbub over his choice to take a second will cast shame upon her and reflect poorly on the monarchy as a whole.

Instead, he vanishes into his bedchambers at the end of the feast, accompanied by his wife...by both his wives. 

Cersei allows for no hesitation, her own clever fingers working at the laces of her gown the moment the door slams shut behind them. Once she strips down to her shift, her astonishing curves illuminated by the warm candlelight, she reaches for him, lacing her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a deep, indulgent kiss.

(Through his peripherals, he sees Lady Sansa averting her eyes, pointedly focusing her attention on the toes of her own shoes.)

But the girl has little opportunity to distance herself from what’s happening in the room- Cersei immediately crosses to her, long and elegant fingers teasing at and dismantling the knots fastening the girl’s gown in place.

“You _ are _ a beauty, aren’t you?” she breathes in the girl’s ear, and Jaime wonders whether Sansa manages to catch the slightly-threatening undertone in his sister’s voice.

But before he can dwell overmuch on such things, he encircles Cersei’s waist with his arms and draws her down to the bed, lavishing kisses on her lips and neck and breasts, maneuvering his fingers between her legs until she sighs and keens.

And yet, in spite of her (obviously) impending climax, Cersei insists on sitting upright and extending her arms in little Sansa’s direction. 

“Come here, sister wife,” she exhales, and he feels his cock turn hard as granite-

The girl steps toward the bed, carried aloft by pointed feet, her hair a cascade of crimson down her snow-white arms-

Cersei draws her onto the mattress and pins her on her back, immediately leaning over to kiss her on the mouth. And it’s beautiful, red and gold, blinding white-

He extends one arm to run his fingers through Sansa’s scarlet tresses, but once he realizes that he’s within Cersei’s scope of peripheral vision, he drops the silken lock of hair.

Cersei’s hands roam everywhere- tracing Sansa’s nascent curves, squeezing her buds of breasts, stroking gently between her legs-

Once the girl allows her knees to fall to either side, Cersei slides away with a triumphant beam, nodding in his direction. “Have at it, brother.”

But he can’t penetrate the girl, not before his tongue claims purchase within Cersei’s mouth, not before he moves his fingers just the way she likes, until she cries his name and implores release-

He does, and she does, and he scarcely notices the feel of the girl’s tight cunt around him when he slides into her. She utters a sound, something akin to a scream, but he barely realizes it. She’s there...but it hardly matters at all.

* * *

There’s a gentleness to Lady-_ no, Queen- _ Sansa’s heart. At first, he felt inclined to reject it as a weakness- _ she’s lily-livered, there’s no spine beneath that smooth, pretty skin _, Cersei tells him as her hand pumps up and down along his hard cock, his earlobe fastened between her teeth. 

  
Cersei is clearly trying to convince him of _ something _ . But he only wants to tell her, only wants to assure her- _ there’s no need. There’s never been any need. _

And so he tells himself that there’s nothing wrong with the way his eyes follow the girl as she smiles at peasant children and offers pretty ribbons and hair fastenings to the common girls who bustle through the marketplace. He tells himself that it’s only familial loyalty that makes him smile when she presents his little cousin Janei with a doll she’s sewn by hand, and when she offers to play knights and damsels with the little girl, offering up a tribune of hand-stitched warrior toys to stand in the appropriate positions. 

He even tells himself that there’s nothing wrong with the fondness her beastly direwolf shows him, with the way the massive monster nuzzles her warm and damp nose into his palm and curls up beneath his bent legs, providing a warm and absurdly-substantial form of recline. 

The word “wife” never cleaves to her, not in his mind’s secret kingdom. Yes, he wedded her in the sight of the Seven, with his beloved first wife (his only true wife) bearing witness...but he never beds her without Cersei at his side-

(Without Cersei licking between the girl’s legs to make her wet, without Cersei’s hand clasped around his cock, playing with him until he can barely tolerate any more, without Cersei massaging the tight muscles of his back as he thrusts between the girl’s thighs.)

It’s the only form of fidelity he can offer at this point, and he’ll be damned if he deprives his sole chosen spouse of his devotion, his desire-

And always, always, his love.

* * *

The maesters spirit Cersei into the palace’s medical wing, babbling concerns over her lower-belly discomfort and her sudden onset of nausea. He hovers in the antechamber, his pulse throbbing in his throat, cold perspiration seeping through every pore as his fear overtakes his body-

“The child is lost,” the old man mumbles to the King, and Jaime heaves an enormous sigh of relief. 

He hadn’t even known that Cersei carried a babe- _ did she know? _But it hardly matters- Cersei lives, his dearest love, his sister and other half, she lives, and the Gods can take this phantom babe, so long as they leave her here-

But Cersei will not receive him. The maester blames her grief, assuring His Grace that the Queen would gladly see him, were she feeling less melancholy…

...but something ominous and peculiar puckers at the hem of his contented life, a sudden dread, a sour aftertaste that he doesn’t at all appreciate. _ Does she think me to blame? _he wonders in a panic- but no, children perish in their mothers’ wombs all the time, there’s no need to blame anyone…

He isn’t sure what force propels him toward his second wife’s chambers, and he’s entirely surprised at the sting in his knuckles after he thwaps his fist forcefully at her door. 

She permits him entry, of course- such a dutiful little lass, clad in a virginal white nightdress, vermilion hair cascading-

“How is the Queen, Your Grace?” she asks with the utmost of decorum, and he bites his lip as a reminder to keep his eyes from rolling. 

“She needs some time to herself.” At once, the girl’s expression droops, and genuine intrigue compels him to ask- “You miss her, then?”

“Yes,” the girl whispers, a sweet pink blush tracing over her architectural cheekbones. An errant lock of hair obscures her eyes from full view, and he assures himself that he’s only thinking of expedience when he reaches over to smooth it back and tuck it behind her ear. 

“You enjoy spending time with her, do you not?” He’s not entirely sure what lurks behind the delicacy of his voice- he can hear his words tremble, and he wonders whether she’s noticed the fragility of the syllables, the hesitation of each breath.

And then Sansa turns her full gaze upon him, blue eyes radiant as the light of the full moon. Her words are so quiet that he must lean in her direction to hear them- “She’s the most perfect woman in all the world.”

Everything after that moment happens in a wild whir of time and space- his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands tracing her breasts and waist, his hips seeking refuge in the softness between her thighs, his cock plunging into her cunt, all surely a figment of imagination, nothing real, nothing permanent-

_ Nothing traitorous. _

* * *

Queen Sansa of Houses Stark and Lannister bears her son on a glorious late-summer afternoon, the sun spilling through stained glass as the High Septon offers a blessing to the newborn babe. In the front row of pews, the child’s grandsire flushes with pride- he doesn’t smile, but the triumphant gleam in his gold-green eyes clearly indicates his pleasure.

The young queen cradles her baby to her breast, every inch of her body imbued with tenderness, her fingers feather-light on the child’s head as she brushes his downy golden hair to one side. The king only regards his son out of the corners of his eyes; his indifference can’t be denied, but he does offer a smile when the boy clutches his finger and utters a hearty squeal.

As for Queen Cersei, she stands to the side, an artificial grin plastered to her face, her eyes vacant and expressionless as the glass orbs in the face of a doll. Concern seizes the king’s heart as she reaches for his once and future queen, resting his hand on her shoulder-

She flinches from his touch, and his soul pulverizes, crumbling into pebbles and rolling through an empty, endless wasteland. 

  
  



End file.
